THE MARBLE FLOOR FELT cool against the side of my face and on my bare legs and arms. I focused on the tiny flecks of dust I could see on the ground, amazed that I could distinguish individual grains from each other.
I felt a drop of sweat hit my cheek. Revolted, I craned my neck as far away as I could. Above me Hernandez was moving rhythmically, thrusting into me with a kind of detached aggression. His breath came in short, rasping gasps.
How long had he known that he was going to rape me? I thought of how he had sent Tony away “for his own protection.” That must have been a part of his scheme.
He grunted and I felt his body relax. His full weight pinned me down until he pushed himself away. I heard the wet slap of rubber as he pulled the condom off his penis and tossed it to the floor. I heard rustling sounds as he adjusted his clothing, then his footsteps walking away … the click of the door, the squeak of the gate.
THE DOORBELL RANG AGAIN, several nights later. I had convinced myself that Hernandez would not come back. No, I thought, I can’t go through it again. I’ve learned my lesson. My hands began to tremble uncontrollably. When I didn’t answer the door, he began to tap on the gate with his gun.
Hernandez had the power to banish me to prison with a snap of his fingers. In there, my situation would be infinitely worse. He would separate me from Justine without a moment’s hesitation.
I learned to cope. I forced my mind to drift, and let my eyes wander. As I lay pinned to the floor on one of those awful nights, I spotted an intricate spider’s web in the corner and made a mental note to sweep it away in the morning.
Later, as I stood under an ice-cold shower, trying to scrub all traces of him from me, I recalled the first time I had encountered Hernandez. I remembered the casual way he had plucked plantains from Colonel Rivera’s plate without asking. Now he was driving around Santo Domingo in a Jeep that didn’t belong to him. Clearly, the general was used to having what he wanted. So was he punishing me? Or was he just doing as he pleased because he could get away with it?
Rosa knew nothing of the general’s late-night visits. I suppose it was odd that she didn’t notice anything was wrong, or seemed different about me. But then again, we were working endless hours full of stress and sadness. Forced smiles had long been necessary, so as not to cause Justine any more upset. I had worn this mask for weeks, so why should she realize it was hiding some fresh trauma? Anyway, I was glad not to talk about it. I was deeply humiliated by what was happening to me. Having someone else know would only have compounded the profound shame I felt. I was grateful for the continuous cycle of preparing meals for the clerks, cleaning up, and caring for Justine. During the day, at least, I had little time to dwell on what was lying in wait for me when the sun went down.
MY RESIGNATION TO MY situation was such that when the doorbell rang one afternoon, I simply untied my apron, grabbed my shoes and walked to the door. I expected that the police were coming to take me somewhere, and I knew that protesting was pointless. To my surprise, Domingo, the company driver, was standing at the gate.
“Hello, lady,” he said cheerfully. He handed me a plastic bag full of pesos and a scribbled note from Tony. Domingo would be at my beck and call so long as the clerks remained in jail.
Not being at the mercy of taxi drivers was a relief, and we needed the extra pair of hands to help us during the day. Domingo lightened the gloomy atmosphere with his happy-go-lucky demeanor. He was overjoyed to have a job again, and an opportunity to practice his rudimentary English. Via Domingo I learned that the clerks had been moved back to the main police station from the Palacio de Justicia. He didn’t know the reason for the transfer, but assured me that they were more comfortable there. He told me that they were being detained in a “very roomy” cell.
“Only Americanos there,” he said.
“And Remo?”
Domingo shook his head. “No more Remo,” he said, and I felt as though my heart would split in two.
With a driver, unlimited funds, and a van at our disposal, we were able to ensure that the clerks had everything they needed. We sent gallons of drinking water, mats, pillows, clothing, cigarettes, and toiletries. We did their laundry and took requests for meals. They asked for electric fans, books, magazines, and alcohol. One evening Domingo pulled me aside and said that some of the clerks were asking for prostitutes. “You give Domingo pesos … Domingo get lady for Americans.”
“No—no way!” I was horrified. He was reminding me of the threat I felt hanging over my own head.
I managed to get through most days by pretending that everything was fine. As soon as the sun set, however, my anxiety would build. By the time Justine and Rosa turned in for bed, my chest felt so tight I could hardly breathe. It was worse during the frequent blackouts. Sitting alone in the stifling darkness, listening for the general’s footsteps coming up the staircase, I felt like I was counting down the minutes to my own execution.
I tried to tell myself I was being dramatic. What was the big deal? Someone was fucking me against my will—so what? How many times had Tony come home and forced himself on me when he was drunk? I would berate myself—Stop being so melodramatic! Grow up! Get over it! Don’t be such a goddamned baby.
In my darker moments, the word “whore” would bubble up from the depths of my psyche. I knew that the only reason the clerks had been moved, the only reason that they were getting everything we sent to them, was because of Hernandez. How could it be rape if I was getting something in exchange?
Whore. Whore. Whore.
One night after Hernandez left, I unplugged the TV and VCR. I put every movie we owned into a bag and sent Domingo to take the items to our imprisoned clerks. The voice in my head piped up again. See? You’re a whore.
At times I even felt that I owed Hernandez something. That I should be grateful to him. After all, he was withholding evidence from the FBI. Sometimes I wondered if things would have gone differently if I’d treated him with more respect in the beginning. The thoughts made my head spin. Sometimes I’d be doing something ordinary, like making a sandwich or folding Justine’s clothes, and I’d stop—paralyzed by a fury so intense it made me shake. How could this be happening to me?
“REMO! REMO!”
I put down the knife I was holding. Justine was excitedly tugging my apron and pointing toward the door. It couldn’t be Remo, but I smiled indulgently and followed her anyway. And there he was.
I pulled him inside and threw my arms around him in a crushing hug. “I didn’t know if you were alive or dead!” I whispered, holding him tight.
Remo stepped back and looked at me, aghast. “What happened to your hair?” He eyed me up and down. “Jesus Christ, you’re skinny.”
I ignored his remarks. “How did you get past the police?”
Remo pulled a laminated card out of his pocket and handed it to me. “Take a look.”
It was the business card of the sub-jefe of the Policia Nacional, someone named Sanchez-Castillo. “I don’t understand.”
“He’s tipped to be the next chief of police. He was educated and trained in the States, and he’s a reformer. This guy is determined to root out corruption in the police force.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Turn it over.”
On the reverse side it said in neat, typed letters: The bearer of this card, Remo M. Grayson, is hereby granted protection under the highest military and police authority. It was stamped, dated, and personally signed by Sanchez-Castillo.
Remo grinned. “I’m practically bulletproof. I showed it to the cops downstairs and they saluted me.”
“But the last I heard, you were fighting a bunch of guards and had to be sedated. What happened to you? How did you get out?”
Remo sighed heavily and took a seat in the dining room. “I woke up in a cell with a bunch of Dominicans. Two days later, the guards came for me. I thought they were taking me back to the clerks, but they took me to the main building instead.”
“To the secret police?”
“No. To a big comfortable room where I heard my boss, Demetrio, laughing with someone in the adjoining office.
“The next thing I knew, the fourth-most powerful man in the country was apologizing to me for everything I went through.” Noting the confused look on my face, Remo pressed on. “Demetrio figured something was wrong when I didn’t show up at Atlántico. I’ve always been reliable. When he read the newspapers, he put two and two together. He knew I wasn’t involved in a drug-and-gun-smuggling operation. He guessed that I was the wrong nationality, in the wrong place, at the wrong time. He wasn’t happy to find out that I’d been moonlighting, but that’s hardly a crime.” Once he’d recounted his story, he asked if I knew what was found in Tony’s safe.
“Yeah.” I recalled my last visit to Hernandez’s office. “Claim tapes.”
“All the receipts for the kitchen equipment were in there as well, and they were all in my name. I told Sanchez-Castillo that I had been hired to open up a cafeteria for a company, but that I knew nothing about their activities. The clerks told the police the same story. But that wasn’t enough to convince them to let me go. The only reason I’m free now is because Demetrio has no clue how to run his own nightclub,” he laughed. “That’s why he called Sanchez-Castillo. They were roommates at the University of Texas El Paso. Demetrio asked him to look into my situation. Demetrio’s testimony and those kitchen receipts saved me. Sanchez-Castillo gave me this card,” Remo smiled, cradling it gently in his hand, “so I don’t ever get arrested by accident again.”
It was great to finally hear some positive news. Remo had been so full of doom and gloom after the bust. How ironic that now he practically had the keys to the city.
“I guess house arrest is no picnic,” he said. “You look awful.”
“Awful,” I muttered. I was still processing everything he had told me. If this Sanchez-Castillo were trying to stamp out corruption, then surely he would be very interested in what Rivera, Delgado, and Hernandez were up to. On the other hand, speaking up could land me in prison. Remo was innocent, after all. Hernandez was holding onto an incriminating tape of mine. Sanchez-Castillo may well have been the one who gave the FBI permission to come to the island in the first place.
“Wait,” I said, catching what Remo had said. “How did you know I was under house arrest?”
“Tony told me. He also told me he’s found a new location for the office, and that the clerks are getting out any day now.” I was so caught up in my own nightmare, it seemed strange that anything else was happening. “He’s planning to reopen as soon as they’re released.”
“Thank God,” I sighed. “I can’t wait to get out of here.”
Remo looked despondent. “So you’re going home?”
“Home?” I asked, incredulous. Where did Remo think my home was? Italy, where I was born? New York, where I grew up? Or Canada, where I was a citizen?
Despite everything, I never considered leaving Santo Domingo. What would I do? Knock on my mother’s door in Westchester with Justine in tow—divorced, penniless, unemployed, and bearing the scarlet letter of a criminal record?
“This is home,” I told him. “My home and Justine’s home. I’m not leaving Santo Domingo.”
I SOON FOUND OUT that the situation was not quite as rosy as Tony believed. “Your friends are going to be deported,” Hernandez told me flatly during one of his nocturnal visits. I wondered if he was telling the truth. I knew how much Hernandez relished inflicting emotional damage on me.
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning. With the FBI.” I sensed he was telling the truth. Before Hernandez left that night, he gave me back the keys to my car.
I WOKE UP EARLY the following morning and peered over the balcony. No unmarked police car was waiting outside the entrance. I opened the front door and walked tentatively down the stairs, past the courtyard, breathing in the heavy, fragrant smell of the tropical shrubbery. Lopez, the day guard, wordlessly opened the gate. I peered outside. Nothing. Was I really free?
I walked the half-block to the colmado and bought a copy of Listin Diario, anticipating a tap on the shoulder from the secret police. But no one stopped me. I hurried back to the apartment and spread the paper out on the counter. The front page reported that a group of Americans had been taken into FBI custody the previous evening and were awaiting transportation to the United States. I went into the living room and picked up the phone. The dial tone was normal. I heard no more telltale clicking sounds or echoes in the background. For me, at least, the nightmare was finally over.
I called Tony’s cell. “They deported everyone,” I said simply.
“Rivera just told me,” Tony sighed. “Not only that, the son of a bitch won’t let me bring down any more Americans. He wants me to hire locals. Where the hell am I going find English-speaking locals?” I suggested that Tony talk to Remo, but he just continued complaining. “I need people who speak fluent English. Not Horacio English. Perfect Eng—”
“Tony! I want you to move back in,” I interrupted, silencing him.
I had spent hours thinking about Tony these past few weeks. I’d thought about men in my past that I’d been interested in romantically. What if I never found another man I would love as passionately as I’d once loved Tony? Was I throwing away the best relationship I might ever have, simply because he didn’t live up to my standards of perfection? I knew that Tony had never stopped loving me. I was the one who had given up on us. I had a tendency to give up on things as soon as they went the slightest bit wrong.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
That day, I took Justine to the beach. By the time I carried her upstairs that evening, she was fast asleep. As I walked past the kitchen, I spotted an English newspaper on the counter. With a surge of relief I realized that Tony was home. I crept to Justine’s room and lay her gently down in bed. She was worn out from chasing waves and building sand castles. I covered her with a light cotton blanket, and closed the door softly behind me.
Back in the kitchen I opened the San Francisco Chronicle. On page two was the piece on the clerks’ deportation.
Twenty-five US citizens accused of running a sports-betting ring in the Dominican Republic were handed over to federal authorities today. The operation was allegedly run by San Francisco resident Anthony LoBue, who faces charges of racketeering, money laundering and illegal gambling in connection with the operation, which raked in 100 million dollars a month from gamblers across the United States. The huge dragnet was the result of a long-running probe by federal agents and the US attorney’s organized crime strike force, according to FBI Special Agent Jack Peterson. Eight months ago, authorities raided a pawnshop whose owner, David Feldman, is a suspect in what authorities have described as the biggest probe into illegal sports betting in Northern California. Federal agents tapped Feldman’s phone, leading investigators to the offshore gambling operation. So far authorities have refused to return the one million in cash confiscated from his business.
I closed the paper and walked into the bedroom. Tony was in there, unpacking. “Who’s David Feldman?” I asked.
“I missed you too,” he said sarcastically. He came to give me a kiss, but I skillfully maneuvered him into a hug instead.
“Jesus, what did you do to your hair?” he asked, running his fingers through my shorn locks.
“It’s practical. Who’s David Feldman?”
“Owns a pawnshop in San Fran. Let’s just say he’s kind of a bank, for bookmakers.”
“I thought Sacco did his laundering in L.A.”
“He does. It’s like I said all along, this bust had nothing to do with us. The feds were after LoBue, not Sacco. The whole investigation was San Francisco–based. It never even touched L.A. It was just bad luck. Feldman led the feds to LoBue, and somehow LoBue got us involved. My name came up—Ron’s too—but as of now, we’re both in the clear. As far as the feds are concerned, they got their man.”
I could finally tell Tony about LoBue’s warning. “I met Sonny LoBue in the holding cell. He wanted me to warn you. His exact words were, tell Tony that Ron’s going to fuck him.”
Tony scowled. “That’s ridiculous. LoBue’s a thug. Ron doesn’t even know the guy.”